


Uncertain Happiness

by ashkatom



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-19
Updated: 2012-05-19
Packaged: 2017-11-05 15:16:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/407922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashkatom/pseuds/ashkatom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're an idiot, your flushcrush has just woken you up by retching into the kitchen sink (quite possibly because you die horribly and he knows how), and the only way he is getting any sleep or feeling better is by using you as a talkative pillow. Lady Luck is fucking your life, and she's clearly on top.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncertain Happiness

He never tells you when he has an episode. So there you are, sleeping on the seating block because sopor makes you too loopy to do anything for the next three days if you sleep in it, only to be woken up by the sounds of retching from the nutrition block. This happens more than either you or Pol would like to admit, but he still never wakes you up on purpose even if you keep telling him to.

True to form, he shoots you a miserable look as you pad into the kitchen. He’s only wearing a loose pair of pants, and something in you starts up angry mutterings when you realise that you can still count all of his ribs and could quite possibly use them as a xylophone. “I jutht wanted a drink,” he says, before a shudder runs through his entire body and he leans back over the sink. Nothing comes up - he’s obviously run out of raw materials for migraine-induced vomiting long ago.

You assume your usual Pollux-Castor-Is-An-Idiot-Who-Hears-Voices-At-Midday pose, one hand on his back (fuck, that is his _spine_ , you are going to stuff him full of food as soon as he stops sicking it back up), and one hand combing his hair back from his face. Through some trick of luck, you’re the only one who sees him like this, pale and covered in sweat, hair ragged and mussed about asymmetrically. “You’re kind of doing the opposite of drinking,” you point out. “How bad is it?”

He chokes a little, and you are completely prepared to point him back over the sink, but he’s not sick, he’s...

Fuck it through the planet and back, Pol is crying. You bundle him into your arms firmly, even though that means he has to bend over and you have to go on your toes because he hit a growth spurt last perigee and you’re as short as you ever were.

“Pretty bad,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

“So we’ve given up on the oh-I-was-just-throwing-up-for-the-hell-of-it excuse?” You scoop him up, because he’s a skinny idiot even if he is tall, and walk over to the seating block. “Good to know. Since you’ve given up on that, you’re going to listen to me instead of insisting you’re fine, right?”

“Maybe.” He digs his head further into your shoulder, trying to hide from the light, and stabs you in the chin in the process. “Dependth on if you make thenthe or not.”

You snort. “Like you’re in a position to judge.”  You dump him on the seating block, then go to draw the blackout curtains. You don’t mind a bit of light, but Pol is practically burrowing into your pile of blankets to avoid it. He is abominably death-pale and his eyes are unusually dim. “So what was it this time?”

“I, uh,” he licks his lips. “KC, could you get me thome water?”

“Awful topic change, three out of ten,” you tell him, and get him a glass of water anyway. He takes one sip, then puts it down and forgets it exists once you sit next to him. “Shove over, you bag of bones, clearly you need someone grubsitting you.”

“No I don’t,” he says, but since he wriggles over anyway the words are mildly redundant. It takes a moment of fussing to get the both of you comfortable, and he ends up with his back to your chest, the tangle of blankets the only thing keeping him off the floor. You’re being choked to death slowly and your elbow may have actually dislocated, but Pol’s gone quiet and his breathing is... well, not quite even, but getting there.

“So what was it?” you ask again, although you’re not sure why. Somehow he knows how all of you are going to die. You’ve seen him looking at you after a bad night of screaming and pain and wretched sobbing (the sobbing is the worst, you have to get Panthe to comfort him then). You never expected to live long, but he doesn’t tell you how you die, and that’s mildly terrifying.

“I’m not telling you.” He rolls over in your shared cocoon and almost topples the two of you off. For a moment, your faces are closer than is comfortable for whatever your relationship is, but he wriggles down until he can pillow his head on your shoulder. You have to build a cushion tower to lift your arm enough to compensate for his horns, but it works. “Thtop athking, KC, you wouldn’t want to know.”

Something disgustingly tender hits you in the throat. While you’re trying to retrieve the tattered remains of your ability to talk and not have it come out as ‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, rebellion fucking sucks and all I want to do is go back to living in the desert with everyone and have them all be okay forever,’ you slowly stroke through his hair. It’s still damp from his cold sweat, and he could definitely use ablutions, but the startled look he gives you that fades into contentment means that you’re pretty much stuck here, stroking him like a purrbeast.

You don’t think you’ve ever known him to be so quiet. He doesn’t even wince when you tug through a knot. You think he’s asleep when you gently brush the back of your hand along his cheek, only to be embarrassed when he opens his eyes and looks up at you. “KC?”

“Sorry,” you stammer out. “Thought you were asleep.”

He reaches up and returns the gesture. Your bloodpusher skips a beat, and, twined as close as you are, you are sure Pol notices. He’s always been good at the whole body language thing, which makes him hard to read. These afternoons where he’s besieged on all sides by nightmares and screaming headaches are the only times he drops his shields. You kind of wish he’d do it more often.

 “The voitheth are thtill too loud for thleeping. But it’th nithe jutht lithening to you.” He laughs, more of a rasping hack than anything. “That thoundth lame.”

You tuck the blankets further around his shoulders, which gives you a little time to recover from the near-fatal case of wanting to smoosh your face against his that you just came down with. “Should I talk, or something?”

He exhales in relief. “Fuck yeth. Pleathe.”

\--

Panthe finds you and Pol in the evening, and somehow manages to shake you awake without waking him up too. Your throat aches from talking about whatever you could think of for literal hours, but, well, it was worth it. He’s sound asleep against you, his breathing even and his skin not as corpse-like. He gets so little actual sleep that you can’t bring yourself to wake him up so soon, even if you can no longer feel most of your limbs.

Panthe raises her eyebrows and looks pointedly from him to you. When you still don’t get it, she waggles her eyebrows.

You have to bite your tongue to keep from shrieking. Clearly you are the master of hiding flushed feelings, she is just _unusually_ perceptive, no, you are definitely screwed. “ _No_ ,” you hiss, and throw a cushion at her.

“I’m going to tell him if you don’t!” she sing-whispers back, and skips off to the nutrition block. “Oh, _gross_. Kar, wash the sink out next time, purr _lease_.”

Pol stirs against you, and you have to tighten your arm around him to stop him from falling off the seating block. When he opens his eyes, they’re less dim than they were when he was trying to eke out whatever comfort he could find as you fell asleep. Some tense lines in his face you hadn’t even noticed are also gone, and it’s all you can do to stop yourself from touching the places where they’d been.

“I thought I heard AC,” he says, lifting up his head to look around the room.

“She’s in the nutrition block,” you say, and force yourself to let him go. Instead of getting up, like you expected, he rolls over until he’s lying flat on the seating block and you’re squished sideways into the back. “As much as I was hoping to quit breathing this perigee...” you start.

“I’m thtill not feeling all that great.” This is definitely a lie, you are sure. He raises his voice. “AC! Bring uth breakfatht?”

She brings out two plates of bacon and eggs, dumping one on Pol’s lap before sitting on the floor and leaning on the seating block. “Kar has paws,” she says as she digs into her own plate. You steal both of Pol’s eggs and a slice of toast, and get a smack from Panthe when you lean over Pol to try to steal one of her eggs as well. “Kar might also want to make sure you take ablutions befur Rosa comes back,” she tells Pol, pointedly ignoring you. “You smell pawful.”

“What, no KC-AC duo wrethling me into the ablutionth thtall and forthing me to be civilithed? I’m dithappointed.”

Panthe stands up and takes Pol’s plate. “I made you breakfast, Kar can do the wrestling,” she says gravely. “If it’s naked I’m filming it and putting it on Trolltube.” She bends over and kisses him on the forehead. “At least you woke him up this time.”

“Thish time?” you ask, around a mouthful of egg and toast. It seems your companions have been keeping secrets from you.

Pol takes your hand, which is enough to shock you into silence. He’s been doing that a lot lately. You’d think it’d stop surprising you. “He’th actually thomewhat utheful,” he tells Panthe. “Maybe I’ll keep him around.” He winces when you elbow him in the stomach. “Oh no! KC, I’m thick! I think I’m going to throw up, ethpecially over your blanket pile! Oh, if only you hadn’t elbowed me!”

Panthe rolls her eyes and leaves. You are left with a blanket full of squirming psionic and a heart full of uncertain happiness. Everything else is just details, you decide, as you march him to the ablutions chamber and throw fresh clothes in after him. Everything will just work out.

You wish that you could believe that.


End file.
